 dedication, prelude, prologue, and scene one of Faust. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Faust, part one, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Translated by Bayard Taylor. Dedication When ye come, ye hovering forms, I find ye as early to my clouded sight ye shone. Shall I attempt this once to seize and bind ye? Still, oh, my heart, is that illusion thrown? Ye crowd more near! Then be the rain assigned ye, and sway me from your misty shadowy zone. My bosom thrills with youthful passion shaken, for a magic airs that round your march awaken. Of joyous days ye bring the blissful vision, the dear, familiar phantoms arise again, and like an old and half-extinct tradition, first love returns, with friendship in his train. Renewed his pain with mournful repetition, life tracks his devious labyrinthine chain, and names the good whose cheating fortune tore them from happy hours, and left me to deplore them. They hear no longer these succeeding measures, the souls to whom my earliest songs I sang, dispersed the friendly troop with all its pleasures, and still, alas, the echoes first that rang. I bring the unknown multitude my treasures, their very plaudits give my heart a pang, and those beside whose joy my song is flattered, if still they live, guide through the world a scattered. And grasps me now a long unwanted yearning for that serene and solemn spirit land. My song to faint eolian murmurs turning, sways like a harp-string by the breezes fanned. I thrill and tremble, tear on tear is burning, and the stern heart is tenderly unmanned. What I possess I see far distant lying, and what I lost grows real and undying, prelude at the theatre. You two, who oft a-helping hand of lint in need and tribulation, come, let me know your expectation of this, our enterprise in German land. I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated, especially since it lives and lets me live. The posts are set, the booth of boards completed, and each awaits the banquet I shall give. Already there with curious eyebrows raised they sit, sedate, and hope to be amazed. I know how, one, the people's taste may flatter, yet here a huge embarrassment I feel. What they're accustomed to is no great matter, but then, alas, they've read an awful deal. How shall we plan that all be fresh and new, important matter, yet attractive too? For it is my pleasure to behold them surging when to our booth the current sets apace, and with tremendous oft-repeated urging squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace. By daylight even they push and cram in to reach the cellar's box, a fighting host, and, as for bread around a baker's door in famine, to get a ticket break their necks almost. This miracle alone can work the poet on men so various. Now, my friend, pray show it. Speak not to me of yonder mockly masses, whom but to see puts out the fire of song. Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes and in its whirlpool forces us along. No, lead me where some heavenly silence glaces, the purer joys that round the poet throng, where love and friendship still divinely fashion, the bonds that bless the reeds that crown his passion. Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling, the timid lips have stammeringly expressed, now failing now perchance success revealing, gulps the wild moment in its greedy breast, or oft reluctant years its warrant sealing, its perfect stature stands at last confessed. What dazzles for the moment spends its spirit. What's genuine shall posterity inherit? Posterity? Don't name the word to me. If I should choose to preach posterity, where would you get contemporary fun? That men will have it, there's no blicking. A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking, is something worth to everyone, who genially his nature can outpour takes from the people's moods no irritation. The wider circle he acquires, the more securely works his inspiration. Then plug apart, and give us sterling cloying, let fancy be with her attendance fitted, sense, reason, sentiment, and passion join, but have a care, lest folly be omitted. Chiefly enough of incident prepare. They come to look, and they prefer to stare. Real off a host of threads before their faces, so that they gape in stupid wonder, then by sheer diffuseness you have won their graces, and are at once most popular of men, only by mass you touch the mass. For any will finally himself his bit select. Who offers much brings something unto many, and each goes home content with the effect. If you've a peace, why just in pieces give it. A hash, a stew will bring success, believe it. To ze easily displayed, and easy to invent. What use a whole, compactly to present, your hearers pick and pluck as soon as they receive it. You do not feel how such a trade debases, how ill it suits the artist, proud and true, for botching work each fine pretender traces is, I perceive, a principle with you. Such a reproof, not in the least offends. A man who, some result intends, must use the tools that best are fitting. Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting. And then observe for whom you write, if one comes bored, exhausted quite, another satiate, leaves the banquet tapers, and worst of all, full many a white is fresh from reading of the daily papers. Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade, mere curiosity their spirits warming. The ladies, with themselves and with their finery, aid, without a salary their parts performing. What dreams are yours in high poetic places? You're pleased for sooth, full houses to behold. Draw near, and view your patron's faces. The half are coarse, the half are cold. One, when the play is out, goes home to cards. A wild night on a wench's breast, another chooses. Why should you rack, poor foolish bards, for ends like these? The gracious muses, I tell you, give but more, more, ever more, they ask. Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory. Seek to confound your auditory, to satisfy them as a task. What ails you now? Is it suffering or pleasure? Go find yourself a more obedient slave. What shall the poet that which nature gave, the highest right supreme humanity, forfeit so wantonly to swell your treasure? Whence o'er the heart his empire free, the elements of life how conquer's he? Is not his heart's accord urged outward far and dim to wind the world in unison with him? When on the spindle spun to endless distance, by nature's listless hand the thread is twirled, and the discordant tones of all existence in sullen jangle are together hurled? Who, then, the changeless order of creation divides and kindles into rhythmic dance? Who brings the one to join the general ordination, where it may throb in grandest consonance? Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom, in brooding souls the sunset burn above? Who scatters every fairest April blossom along the shining path of love? Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns requiting, desert with fame in actions every field? Who makes Olympus sure that God's uniting, that might of man as in the bard revealed? So these fine forces in conjunction propel the high poetic function, as in a love adventure they might play, you meet by accident, you feel, you stay, and by degrees your heart is tangled, bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled, you're ravished white, then comes a touch of woe, and there's indeed romance, completed ere you know. Let us then such a drama give, grasp the exhaustless life that all men live, each shares their end, though few may comprehend, where ere you touch, there's interest without end. In motley pictures little light, much error, and of truth a glimmering might, thus the best beverage is supplied, whence all the world is cheered and edified. Then at your play behold the fairest flower of youth collect, to hear the revelation, each tender soul with sentimental power, sucks melancholy food from your creation, and now in this, now that, the leaven works, and each behold what in his bosom lurks. They still are moved at once to weeping, or to laughter, still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see, a mind once formed is never suited after, one yet in growth will ever grateful be. Then give me back that time of pleasures, while yet in joyous growth I sang, when, like a fount the crowding measures, uninterrupted gushed and sprang. Then bright misveiled the world before me, in opening buds a marvel woke, as I the thousand blossoms broke which every valley richly bore me. I nothing had and yet enough for youth, joy in illusion ardent thirst for truth. Give unrestrained the old emotion, the bliss that touched the verge of pain, the strength of hate loves deep devotion, oh give me back my youth again. Youth, good my friend, you certainly require, when foes in combat sorely press you, when lovely maids in fond desire hang on your bosom and caress you. When from the hard-worn gold a wreath beckons afar, the race awaiting, when after dancing out your breath you pass the night in dissipating. But the familiar heart with soul to play, with grace and bold expression and towards a self-rejected goal to walk with many a sweet digression. This, aged sirs, belongs to you, and we know thus revere you for that reason. Age a child just makes, they say, but is not true. We're only genuine children still, in age's season. The words you've banded are sufficient, to his deeds that I prefer to see, in compliments you're both proficient, but might, the while, more useful be. What's need to talk of inspiration, it is no companion of delay. If poetry be your vocation, let poetry your will obey. Full well you know what here is wanting, the crowd for strongest drink is panting, and such forthwith I'd have you brew. What's left undone today, tomorrow will not do. Waste not a day in vain digression, with resolute, courageous trust sees every possible impression and make it firmly your possession. You'll then work on, because you must. Upon our German stage you know it, each tries his hand at what he will. So take of traps and scenes your fill, and all you find be sure to show it. Use both the great and lesser heavenly light. Squander the stars in any number, beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber, fire, water, darkness, day and night. Thus in our booths contracted sphere the circle of creation will appear, and move as we deliberately impel from heaven, across the world, to hell. Prologue in Heaven The three archangels come forward. The sun orb sings an emulation. Mid brother spheres his ancient frown. His path predestined through creation he ends with a step of thunder sound. The angels from his vigid splendid draw power whose measure none can say. The lofty works uncomprehended are bright as on the earliest day. And swift, and swift beyond conceiving, the splendor of the world goes round. Days, Eden brightness, still relieving the awful night's intense profound. The ocean tides in foam are breaking against the rock's deep bases hurled, and both the spheric race partaking, eternal, swift, our onward whirl. And rival storms abroad are surging, from sea to land, from land to sea. A chain of deepest action forging round all in rothful energy. There flames a desolation, blazing before the thunder's crashing way. Yet, Lord, thy messengers are praising the gentle movement of thy day. Though still by them uncomprehended, from these the angels draw their path, and all thy works sublime and splendid are bright as in creation's hour. Since thou, O Lord, dainst to approach again, and ask us how we do in manner kindest, and here to fall to meet my self-willed faith among dominials, now my faiths thou findest. Pardon, this troop I cannot follow after, with lofty speech, though by them scorned and spurned, my pathos certainly would move thy laughter, if thou had not all merriment unlearned. Of sons and walls I have nothing to be coated, how man torment themselves is all I have noted. The little god of the world sticks to the same old way, and is as whimsical as on creation's day. Life somewhat better might content him, but for the gleam of heavenly light which thou has to lend him. He calls it reason, thence his power is increased to be far best here than any best. Saving thy gracious presence he to me, a long-legged grasshopper appears to be, that springing flies and flying springs, and in the grass the same old deity sings. Would he still lay among the grass he grows him? Each bit of dung he seeks to stick his nose in. Hast thou then nothing more to mention, comest ever thus with ill intention, finds nothing right on earth eternally? No, Lord, I find things there still bad as they can be. Men's misery even to pity moves my nature. I have scarred the heart to plague the wretched creature. Nost, Faust? The doctor Faust. My servant he. Forsooth, he serves you after strange devices, no orderly meat or drink the fools of voices. His spirit is form and foe's pirate, half-conscious of his frenzied crazed unrest, the fairest task from heaven he required, from art the highest raptures and the best, and all the ne'er and far that he desired fades to subdue the tumult of his breast. Though still confused his service unto me, I soon shall lead him to a clearer morning. Sees not the gardener even while buds his tree, both flower and fruit the future years adorning? What will you bet? There is still a chance to gain him. If unto me full leave you give, gently upon my road to train him. As long as he on earth shall live, so long I make no prohibition, while man's desires and aspirations stir, he cannot choose but err. My thanks. I find the dead no acquisition, and never care to have them in my keeping. I much prefer the chicks where ruddy blood is leaping, and when a corpse approaches close my house, it goes with me as we decap the mouse. Enough. What thou hast asked is granted. Turn off this spirit from his fountain head. To trap him, let thy snares be planted, and him with thee be downward led. Then stand abashed when thou art forced to say, a good man through obscure aspiration has still an instinct of the one true way. Agreed, but it is a short probation. About my bet I feel no trepidation. If I fulfill my expectation, he will let me triumph with a swelling breast. Dust shall he eat, and with a chest, as did a certain snake, my near relation. Therein thou art free according to thy merits, the like of thee have never moved my hate. Of all the bold denying spirits, the waggish nave least troubled doth create. Man's active nature, flagging seats too soon the level, unqualified repose he learns to crave. Whence willingly the comrade him I gave, who works, excites, and must create as devil, but ye gods, sons in love and duty, enjoy the rich, the everlasting beauty. Creative power that works eternal schemes clasp you in bonds of love, relaxing never, and what in wavering apparition gleams, fix in its place with thoughts that stand for ever. Heaven closes, the archangels separate, solace. I like at times to hear the ancients' word, and have a care to be most civil. It is really kind of such a noble lord, so humanly to gossip with the devil. First part of the tragedy. One. Night. A lofty arched, narrow, gothic chamber, foused in a chair at his desk, restless. I have studied now philosophy, and jurisprudence, medicine, and even a last theology, from end to end with labour keen, and here, poor fool, with all my lore, I stand no wiser than before. I'm magister, yea, doctor height, and straight or crosswise, wrong or right, these ten years long with many woes, I've led my scholars by the nose, and see that nothing can be known. That knowledge cuts me to the bone. I'm cleverer true than those fobs of teachers, doctors, and magisters, scribes, and preachers. Neither scruples nor doubts come now to smite me, nor hell nor devil can longer affright me. For this all pleasure am I forgoing. I do not pretend to ought worth knowing. I do not pretend I could be a teacher to help or convert a fellow creature. Then, too, I've neither lands nor gold, nor the world's least pomp or honour hold. No dog would endure such a cursed existence. Wherefore, from magic I seek assistance, that many a secret perchance I reach through spirit power and spirit speech, and thus the bitter task forgo of saying things I do not know, that I may detect the inmost force which binds the world and guides its course, its germs, productive powers explore, and rummage in empty words no more. O full and splendid moon, whom I have from this desk seen climb the sky so many a midnight, would thy glow for the last time beheld my woe? Ever thine eye most mournful friend, or books and papers, saw me bend. But would that I on mountains grand amid thy blessed light could stand, with spirits through mountain caverns hover, float in thy twilight the meadows over, and freed from the fumes of lore that swath me, to health in thy dewy fountains bathe me? This dungeon still I see, this drear accursed masonry, where even the welcome daylight strains but duskly through the painted panes, hemmed in by many a toppling heap of books, worm-eaten, gray with dust, which to the vaulted ceiling creep against the smoky paper thrust, with glasses, boxes, round me stacked, and instruments together hurled, ancestral lumber stuffed and packed, such is my world, and what a world! And do I ask wherefore my heart falters, oppressed with unknown needs? Why some inexplicable, smart all-movement of my life impedes? Alas, in living nature's stead, where God, his human creature, set in smoke and mold the fleshless dead and bones of beasts around me yet, fly up and seek the broad free land, and this one book of mystery, from Nostradamus' very hand, is it not sufficient company? When I, the starry courses know, and nature's wise instructions seek, with light of power my soul shall glow, as when to spirits, spirits speak. His vein this empty brooding hear, though guest to the holy symbols be. You spirits come, you hover near. Oh, if you hear me, answer me! He opens the book, and perceives the sign of the macrocosm. Ha! What a sudden rapture leaps from this I view, through all my senses swiftly flowing. I feel a youthful holy, vital bliss in every vein and fiber newly glowing. Was it a God who traced this sign, with calm across my tumult stealing, my troubled heart to joy unsealing, with impulse mystic and divine, the powers of nature here around my path revealing? Am I a God? So clear my eyes, in these pure features I behold, creative nature to my soul unfold. What says the sage? Now first I recognize. The spirit world, no closures fasten, thy senses shut, thy heart is dead, disciple up, untiring, hasten to bathe thy breast, in mourning red. He contemplates the sign. How each the whole its substance gives, each in the other works and lives, like heavenly forces rising and descending, their golden urns reciprocally lending, with wings that winnow blessing, from heaven through earth I see them pressing, filling the all with harmony unceasing. How grand a show! Mada, a show alone. The boundless nature, how make thee my own. Where you, you beast, founts of all being shining, whereon hang heavens and earth's desire, where to our withered hearts aspire? You flow, you feed, and am I vainly pining? He turns the leaves impatiently, and perceives the sign of the earth's spirit. How otherwise upon me works this sign. Thou spirit of the earth art nearer. Even now my powers are loftier, clearer. I glow as drunk with new-made wine, new strength and heart to meet the world in sight me. The woe of earth, the bliss of earth, invite me. And though the shock of storms may smite me, no crash of shipwreck shall have power to fright me. Clouds gather over me. The moon conceals her light. The lamps extinguished. Miserise. Red, angry rays are darting around my head. There falls a horror from the vaulted roof, and seizes me. I feel thy presence. Spirit, I invoke. Reveal thyself. Ha! In my heart what rending stroke. With new impulsion my senses heave in this convulsion. I feel thee draw my heart. Absorb. Exhaust me. Thou must. Thou must. And though my life it cost me. He seizes the book, and mysteriously pronounces the sign of the spirit. A ruddy flame flashes. The spirit appears in the flame. Who calls me? With averted head. Terrible to see. Me hast thou long with might attracted. Long from my sphere thy food extracted, and now. Woe! I endure not thee. To view me is thine aspiration. My voice to hear, my countenance to see. Thy powerful yearning moveeth me. Here am I. What mean perturbation thee, superhuman shakes. Thy soul's high-calling wear. Where is the breast from which itself a world did bear, and shaped and cherished, with such joy expanded, to be our peer with us, the spirit's banded? Where art thou, Faust, whose voice has pierced to me, who towards me pressed with all thine energy? He, art thou, who my presence breathing, seeing, trembles through all the depths of being, arriving worm, a terror-stricken form? The form of flame shall I then fear? Yes, I am Faust. I am thy peer. In the tides of life, in action's storm, a fluctuent wave, a shuttle free, birth and the grave, an eternal sea, a weaving, flowing life, all glowing. Thus at time's humming loom, tis my hand prepares the garment of life which the deity wears. Thou, who around the wide world wendest, thou busy spirit, how near I feel to thee. Thou art like the spirit which thou comprehendest, not me. Disappears. Overwhelmed. Lop thee! Whom, then? I, image of the Godhead, not even like thee. A knock. O death, I know it, tis my fabulous. My fairest luck finds no fruition, in all the fullness of my vision, the soulless sneak disturbs me thus. Enter Wagner in dressing gown and nightcap, a lamp in his hand, Faust turns impatiently. Arden, I heard your defamation. T'was sure an old Greek tragedy you read. In such an art I crave some preparation, since now it stands one in good stead. I've often heard it said a preacher might learn with a comedian for a teacher. Yes, when the priest-comedian is by nature, as happily now and then the case may be. Ah, when one studies thus a prison creature, that scarce the world on holidays can see, scarce through a glass by rare occasion, how shall one lead it by persuasion? You'll narrotain it, save you know the feeling, save from the soul it rises clear, serene in primal strength, compelling the hearts and minds of all who hear. You sit forever gluing, patching, you cook the scraps from others fair, and from your heap of ashes hatching a starveling flame you blow it bare. Take children's monkeys gaze admiring, if such your taste and be content, but near from heart to heart you'll speak inspiring, save your own heart is eloquent. Yet through delivery or to succeed, I feel that I am far behind indeed. Seek thou the honest recompense, beware a tinkling fool to be. With little art, clear wit and sense suggest their own delivery, and if thou art moved to speak in earnest, what need that after words thou yearnest? Yes, your discourses with their glittering show, where you for men twist shredded thought like paper, are unrefreshing as the winds that blow the rustling leaves through chill autumnal vapor. O God, but art is long, and life alas is fleeting, and oft would zeal my critic duty's meeting, in head and breast there's something wrong. How hard it is to compass the assistance? Whereby one rises to the source, and happily ere one travels half the course, must the poor devil quit existence. Is parchment then the holy font before thee, a draft where from thy thirst forever slakes? No true refreshment can restore thee, save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks. Pardon, a great delight is granted, when, in the spirit of the ages planted, we mark how ere our times a sage has thought, and then how far his work, and grandly we have brought. O yes, up to the stars at last. Listen, my friend, the ages that are past are now a book with seven seals protected. What you, the spirit of the ages call, is nothing but the spirit of you all, wherein the ages are reflected. So often times you miserably mar it, at the first glance who sees it runs away, an awful barrel, and a lumber garret, or at the best a punch and judy play, with maxims most pragmatical and hitting, as in the mouths of puppets are befitting. But then, the world, the human heart and brain, of these one covet some slight apprehension. Yes, of the kind which men attain, who dares the child's true name in public mention. The few who thereof something really learned, unwisely frank, with hearts that spurned concealing, and to the mob laid bare each thought and feeling, have ever more been crucified and burned. I pray, you friend, it is now the dead of night. Our converse here must be suspended. I would have showed you watches with delight, so that our learned talk might be extended. Tomorrow, though, I'll ask, in Easter leisure, this and the other question at your pleasure. Most zealously I seek for erudition. Much do I know, but to know is all my ambition. Exit. Solus. That brain alone not loses hope, whose choice is to stick in shallow trash forever more, which digs with eager hand for buried ore, and when it finds an angle worm rejoices. Dare such a human voice disturb the flow around me here of spirit present fullest? And yet, this once my thanks I owe to thee, of all earth's sons the poorest dullest. For thou hast torn me from that desperate state which threatens soon to overwhelm my senses, the apparition was so giant great, it dwarfed and withered all my soul's pretenses. I, image of the Godhead, who began deeming eternal truth secure in nearness, he acquires. Have you begun the sweet consoling chant, which through the night of death the angels' ministrants sang, God's new covenant repeating, With spices and precious balm we arrayed him, Faithful and gracious we tenderly laid him, Linen to bind him, clemenly wound thee, Ah, when we would find him, Christ no more found we. Christ is ascended, bliss hath vested him, Wolves that molested him, trials that tested him, Gloriously ended. Why here in dust entice me with your spell, you gentle, powerful sounds of heaven. Peel rather there, where tender natures dwell. Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given. The dearest child of faith is miracle. I venture not to soar to yonder regions whence the glad tidings hither float, And yet from childhood up familiar with the note, To life it now renews my old allegiance. Once heavenly love sent down a burning kiss upon my brow, In Sabbath silence holy, And filled with mystic presage chimed the church bell slowly, And prayer dissolved me in a fervent bliss. A sweet uncomprehended yearning drove forth my feet through woods and meadows free, And while a thousand tears were burning, I felt a world arise for me. These chants, to youth and all its sports appealing, Proclaimed the springs rejoicing holiday, And memory holds me now, With childish feeling, back from the last, The solemn way. Sound on ye hymns of heaven so sweet and mild. My tears gush forth. The earth takes back her child. Has he, victoriously, birthed from the vaulted grave and gloriously, Now sits exalted? Is he, in low of birth, rapture created near? Ah, to the world of earth, still are we made here. We, his aspiring followers, hymn we miss, Weeping, desiring, master, thy bliss. So near, thus is he here. Pedestrians of all kinds come forth. Why do you go that way? Wherefore the hunters lodge today? We'll saunter to the mill, in yonder hollow. Go to the river tavern, I should say. But then it's not the pleasant way. And what will you? As goes the crowd I follow. Come up to Burgdorf. There you'll find good cheer, The finest glasses and the best of beer, And jolly rows and squabbles, trust me. You swaggering fellow, is your hide a third time itching to be tried? I won't go there. Your jolly rows disgust me. I'll turn and go to town again. We'll surely find him by those poplars, yonder. That's no great luck for me to explain. You'll have him when and where you wander. His partner in the dance you'll be, but what is all your fun to me? He's surely not alone today. He'll be with Curly Head, I heard him say. Deuce, how they step the box on winches. Come, brother, we must see them to the winches. A strong old beer, a pipe that stings and bites, A girl in Sunday clothes, these three are my delights. Just see those handsome fellows there. It's really shameful, I declare, to follow servant-girls when they might have the most gentile society to-day. To the first student. Not quite so fast. Two others come behind. Those dress so prettily and neatly. My neighbor's one of them. I find a girl that takes my heart completely. They go their way with looks demure, but they'll accept us, after all, I'm sure. No, brother. Not for me their formal ways. Quick, lest our game escape us in the press. The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays will best on Sundays, fondle and caress. He suits me not at all, our new-made burger master. Since he's installed, his arrogance grows faster. How has he helped the town, I say? Things worsen. What improvement names he? Abedience more than ever, claims he. And more than ever, we must pay. Beggar sings. On Sundays, holidays, there's nought I take delight in, like gossiping of war and war's array, when down in Turkey far away, the foreign people are a-fighting. One at the window sits with glass and friends, and sees all sorts of ships go down the river, gliding. And blesses then, as home he wends at night, our times of peace abiding. Dear me, how fine, so handsome and so young! Who wouldn't lose his heart that met you? Don't be so proud, I'll hold my tongue, and what you'd like I'll undertake to get you. Come, Agatha, I shunned the witch's sight, before folks lest there be misgiving. Tis true, she showed me on St. Andrew's night, my future sweetheart, just as he were living. She showed me mine in crystal clear, with several wild young blades, a soldier-lover. I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer, and yet somehow his face I can't discover. Castles with lofty ramparts and towers, maidens distasteful in beauty's array. Both shall be ours, both is the venture, splendid the pay. Lads, let the trumpets for us be suing, calling to pleasure, calling to ruin. Stormy our life is, such is its boon, maidens and castles capitulate soon. Both is the venture, splendid the pay, and the soldiers go marching, marching away. Released from ice or brook and river, by the quickening glance of the gracious spring, the colors of hope to the valley cling, and weak old winter himself must shiver, withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king. Once ever retreating he sends again impotent showers of sleet that darkle in belts across the green of the plain, but the sun will permit no white to sparkle. Everywhere form in development moveth, he will brighten the world with the tints he loveth, and lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red, he takes these gaudy people instead. Turn thee about, and from this height, back on the town direct thy sight. Out of the hollow, gloomy gate, the motley throngs come forth elate, each will the joy of the sunshine hoard to honor the day of the risen Lord. They feel themselves their resurrection, from the low dark room scarce habitable, from the bonds of work, from trade's restriction, from the pressing weight of roof and gable, from the narrow crushing streets and alleys, from the church's solemn and reverent night, all come forth to the cheerful light. How lively see the multitude sallies scattering through gardens and fields remote, while over the river that broadly dallys dances so many a festive boat, and over laden, nigh to sinking, the last full wary takes the steam. Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking, their clothes are colors that softly gleam. I hear the noise of the village even. Here is the people's proper heaven, here high and low, contented sea. Here I am man, dare man to be. To stroll with you, Sir Dr. Flatters, to his honor, profit unto me. But I alone would shun these shallow matters, since all that's coarse provokes my enmity. This fiddling, shouting, tin-pin-rolling, I hate. These noises of the throng, they rave as Satan wore their sports-controlling, and call it mirth, and call it song. Peasants under the linden tree, dance and song. All for the dance the shepherd dressed in ribbons wreath and gayest vest, himself with carol-raying. Around the linden lass and lad already footed it, like mad hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. The fiddle-bow was playing. He broke the ranks, no-wit afraid, and with his elbow punched a maid who stood to dance surveying. The buxom when she turned and said, Now you, I call a stupid head, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, be decent while you're staying. Then round the circle went their flight, they danced to left, they danced to right, the kirtles all were playing. They first grew red, and then grew warm, and rested panting arm in arm. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, and tips and elbows straying. Now don't be so familiar here, how many a one has fooled his dear, way-laying and betraying. And yet he coaxed her soon aside, and round the linden sounded wide, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. And the fiddle ball was playing. Sir Doctor, it is good of you that thus you condescend today, among this crowd of merry folk, a high-learned man to stray. Then also take the finest can, we fill with fresh wine for your sake. I offer it in humbly wish, that not alone your thirst is slake, that as the drops below its break, so many days of life you drink. I take the cup you kindly reach, with thanks and health, to all and each. The people gather in a circle about him. In truth, it is well and fitly timed, that now our day of joy you share, who, where to for in evil days, gave us so much of helping care. Still many a man stands living here, saved by your father's skillful hand, that snatched him from the fever's rage, and stayed the plague in all the land. Then also you, though but a youth, went into every house of pain. Many the corpses carried forth, but you in health came out again. No test or trial you evaded, a helping God the helper aided. Health to the man so skilled and tried, that for our help he lonely abide. To him above bow down, my friends, who teaches help and succour sends. He goes on with Wagner. With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou receive the people's honest veneration. How lucky he, whose gifts his station, with such advantages endow. Thou art shown to all the younger generation, each ask and presses near to gaze, the fiddle stops, the dance delays. Thou, goest, may stand and rose to see, and all the caps are lifted high, a little more, and they would bend the knee, as if the holy host came by. A few more steps ascend, as far as Yonderstone. Here from our wandering we will rest contented. Here lost in thought I've lingered off alone, when foolish fasts and prayers my life tormented. Here rich in hope and firm in faith, with tears, rung hands in sighs I've striven, the end of that far-spreading death, entreating from the Lord of Heaven. Now, like contempt the crowd's applause's seem, couldst thou but read within mine inmost spirit, how little now I deem that sire or son such praises merit. My father's was a somber, brooding brain, which through the holy spheres of nature, groped and wandered, and, honestly, in his own fashion, pondered with labour whimsical and pain, who in his dusky workshop bending with proved adepts in company, made from his recipes unending, opposing substances agree. There was a lion red, a wooer daring, within the lily's tepid bath espoused, and both tormented then by flame unsparing, by turns in either bridal chamber housed. If then appeared with colour splendid the young queen in her crystal shell, this was the medicine. The patient's woes soon ended, and none demanded who got well. Thus we are hellish boluses compounding, among these veils and hills surrounding, worse than the pestilence of past. Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving, and I must hear by all the living the shameless murderers praised at last. Why, therefore, yield to such depression? A good man does his honest share, in exercising with the strictest care, the art bequeathed to his possession. Thus thou thy father honour as a youth? Then may his teaching cheerfully impel thee. Best thou, as man, increase the stores of truth? Then may thine own son afterwards excel thee. O happy he who still renews the hope from errors deeps to rise forever, that which one does not know one needs to use, and what one knows one uses never. But let us not by such despondence sow the fortune of this hour in bitter. Mark how, beneath the evening sunlights glow, the green embosomed houses glitter. The glow retreats, done is the day of toil, it yonder haste, new fields of life exploring. Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil upon its track to follow, follow soaring. Then would I see eternal evening gild the silent world beneath me glowing, on fire each mountain peak, with peace each valley filled, the silver brook to golden rivers flowing. The mountain chain with all its gorgeous deep would then no more impede my godlike motion, and now before mine eyes expands the ocean with all its bays in shining sleep. Yet finally the weary god is sinking. The newborn impulse fires my mind, I hasten on, his beams eternal drinking, the day before me, and the night behind. Above me heaven unfurled, the floor of waves beneath me, a glorious dream, though now the glories fade. Alas, the wings that lift the mind, no aid of wings to lift the body can bequeath me. Yet in each soul is born the pleasure of yearning onward, upward, and away. When, or our heads lost in the vaulted azure, the lark sends down his flickering lay. When over crags and piney highlands the poisoning eagle slowly soars, and over plains and lakes and islands the crane sails by to other shores. I've had myself at times some odd caprisis, but never yet such an impulse felt as this is. One soon fatigues on woods and fields to look, nor would I beg the bird his wing to spare us, how otherwise the mental raptures bear us, from page to page, from book to book. Then winter nights take loveliness untold, as warmer life in every limb had crowned you, and when your hands enroll some parchment rare and old, all heaven descends and opens bright around you. One impulse art thou conscious of, at best. O, never seek to know the other. Two souls alas reside within my breast, and each withdraws from and repels its brother. One, with tenacious organs, holds in love and clinging lust the world in its embraces. The other strongly sweeps this dust above into the high ancestral spaces. If there be airy spirits near, twist heaven and earth on potent errands fleeing, let them drop down the golden atmosphere, and bear me forth to new and varied being. Ye, if a magic mantle once were mine, to waft me o'er the world at pleasure, I would not for the costliest stores of treasure, not for a monarch's robe, the gift resign. Invoke not thus the well-known throng, which through the firmament diffused this bearing, and danger a thousand fold are raced to wrong, and every quarter is preparing. Swift from the north the spirit fangs so sharp, sweep down, and with their barbed points will assail you. Then from the east they come, to dry and warp your lungs till breath and being fail you. If from the desert sendeth them the south, with fire on fire your throbbing forehead crowning, the west leads on a host to cure the drought. Only one meadow, field, and you are drowning. They gladly harken prompt for injury, gladly obey because they gladly cheat us. From heaven they represent themselves to be, and list like angels when the lies they meet us. But let us go, to his gray and dusky all, the air is cold, the vapors fall. At night one learns his house to prize. Why stand you this with such a stonest eyes? What in the twilight can your mind so trouble? Seize thou the black dog coursing there, through corn and stubble. Long since, yet deemed him not important in the least. Inspect him close, for what takes thou the beast? Why for a poodle who has lost his master, and since about his tract of fine. Seize thou the spiral circles, narrowing faster, which he approaching round us seems to wind. A streaming trail of fire, if I see rightly, follows his path of mystery. It may be your eyes deceive you slightly, not but a plain black poodle do I see. It seems to me that with enchanted cunning he snares our feet some future chain to bind. I see him timidly, in doubt, around us running, since in his master's stead two strangers doth he find. The circle narrows, he is near. A dog dousiest, and not a phantom here. Behold him stop upon his belly crawl. His tail set wagging, canine habits all. Come, follow us, come here at least. Tis the absurdest, drawless beast. Stand still, and you will see him wait. Address him, and he gambles straight. If something's lost he'll quickly bring it. Your cane, if in the stream you fling it. No doubt you're right. No trace of mind I own is in the beast. I see but drill alone. The dog, when he's well educated, is by the wisest tolerated. Yes, he deserves your favour thoroughly, the clever scholar of the students he. They pass in the city gate. Three, the study. Foust, entering with the poodle. Behind me, field and meadows sleeping, I leave in deep prophetic night. Within whose dread and holy keeping The better soul awakes to light. The wild desires no longer win us. The deeds of passion cease to chain. The love of man revives within us. The love of God revives again. Be still, thou poodle. Make not such racket and riot. Why at the threshold will snuffing be? Behind the stove repose thee in quiet. My softest cushion I give to thee, As thou up yonder with running and leaping Amused us haste on the mountain's crest. So now I take thee into my keeping. A welcome, but also a silent guest. Ah, when within our narrow chamber The lamp with friendly luster glows, Flames in the breast each faded ember, And in the heart itself that knows. Then hope again lends sweet assistance, And reason then resumes her speech. One yearns the rivers of existence, The very fonts of life to reach. Snarl not, poodle. To the sound that rises, The sacred tones that my soul embrace, This bestial noise is out of place. We are used to see that man despises What he never comprehends, And the good in the beautiful vilapens, Finding them often hard to measure. Will the dog, like man, snarl his displeasure? But ah, I feel, though will there to be stronger, Contentment flows from out my breast no longer. Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us, And burning thirst again assail us? Therein I've borne so much probation, And yet this want may be supplied us. We call the supernatural to guide us, We pine and thirst for revelation, Which nowhere worthier is, More nobly sent, than here, in our New Testament. I feel impelled its meaning to determine, With honest purpose once for all, The hallowed original to change, To my beloved German. He opens a volume and commences. It is written, in the beginning was the word, Here I am balked, who now can help afford, The word impossible so high to rate it, And otherwise I must translate it. If by the spirit I am truly taught, Then thus in the beginning was the thought. This first line let me weigh completely, Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly, Is it the thought which works, creates indeed, In the beginning was the power I read, Yet as I write a warning is suggested, That I the sense may not have fairly tested, The spirit aids me, now I see the light, In the beginning was the act I write. If I must share my chamber with thee, Poodle, stop that howling prithee, Cease to bark and bellow. Such a noisy, disturbing fellow, I'll no longer suffer near me. One of us, dost hear me, must leave, I fear me. No longer guest-ride I bestow. The door is open, not free to go. But what do I see in the creature? Is that in the course of nature? Is it actual fact, or fancies, shows, How long and broad my poodle grows? He rises mightily, a canine form that cannot be. What a specter I've harbored thus! He resembles a hippopotamus with fiery eyes, Teeth terrible to see. Oh, now am I sure of thee, For all of thy half-helish brood, The key of Solomon is good. Spirits in the corridor Someone within is caught, Say without, follow him not, Like a fox in a snare, Quakes the old, hailing snare. Take heed, look about, Back and forth hover, Under and over, and the word works itself out. If your aid avail him, Let it not fail him, For he without measure, Has wrought for our pleasure. First, to encounter the beast, The words of the four be addressed. Salamander, shine glorious, Wave undyne as bidden, Silph, be thou hidden, Gnome, be laborious. Who knows not their sense, these elements, Their properties and power not seize, No mastery he inherits over the spirits. Vanish and flaming ether, Salamander, Flow foamingly together undyne, Shine in meteor sheen, Silph, Bring help to hearth and shelf, Incubus, incubus, step forward, And finish thus. Of the four no feature lurks in the creature. Quiet he lies and grins disdain. Not yet, it seems, have I given him pain. Now to undisguise thee, hear me exercise thee. Art thou, my gay one, Hell's fugitive stray one? The sign witness now, before which they bow, The cohorts of hell. With hair all bristling, it begins to swell. Base being, hear us thou, Knowest and fear us thou, the one, Unoriginate, named inexpressibly, Through all heaven impermeate, Pierced irredressably. Behind the stove still banned, See it an elephant expand, It fills the space entire, Mist like melting ever faster. Tis enough, ascend no higher. Lay thyself at the feet of the master. Thou seest not vain the threats I bring thee. With holy fire I'll scorch and sting thee. Wait not to know the threefold dazzling glow. Wait not to know the strongest art within my hands. Mephistopheles, while the vapor is dissipating, Steps forth from behind the stove. In the costume of a traveling scholar. Why such a noise? What are my lord's commands? This was the poodle's real core. A traveling scholar, then. The casus is diverting. The larned gentleman I bowed before, You have made me rowly sweat, That is a tain. What is thy name? Equest and small it seems, For one whose mind the world so much despises. Who's calling all external claims The depths of being only prizes? With all you gentlemen, The names attest whereby the nature usually is expressed. Clearly the latter it implies In names like Bielzebub, destroyer, Father of lies. Who art thou then? Part of that power not understood, Which always wills the bad, and always walks the good. What hidden sense in this enigma lies? I am the spirit that denies, and justly so, For all things from the void called forth Deserve to be destroyed. It are better than were not created. Thus all which you as seen have raided, Destruction ought it evil-blend. That is my proper element. Thou names thyself a part, yet showest complete to me. The more distraught I speak to thee. If man that microcosmic fool Can see himself a hole so frequently, Part of the part am I once all in primal night, Part of the darkness which brought forth the light, The half-delight which now disputes the space, And claims of modern night her ancient place, And yet the struggle fails, since light, however it weeps, Still fatter unto body's cleaves. It flows from body's, body's beautifies, By body's is its course impeded, and so but little time is needed. I hope ere, as the bodies die, it dies. I see the plan thou art pursuing. Thou canst not compass general ruin, and hast on smaller scale begun. And truly it is not much when all is done, That which to not is in resistance set, The something of this clumsy world has yet, Which all that I have undertaken, Not been by me disturbed or shaken, From earthquake-tamp-based wave-volcano's bram, Back into quite subtle sea and land, And the damn stuff, the bestial human brood, What he use in having that to play with, How many have I made away with, And ever circulates a newer fresher blood. It makes me furious such things beholding, From water, art, and air unfolding, A thousand zumps break forth and grow, In dry and wet and warm and chilly, And had I not the flame reserved, why really, There is nothing special of my own to show. So to the actively eternal creative force, In cold disdain you now oppose the fist infernal, Whose wicked clench is all in vain. Some other labour seek thou, rather, Queer son of chaos to begin. Well, we will consider. Thou canst gather my views when next I venture in. My tie, perhaps, depart at present. Why thou shouldst ask, I don't perceive. Though our acquaintance is so recent, For further visits thou hast leave, The windows here, the door is yonder, A chimney also, you behold. I must conface that thought I may not wonder. My steps, by one slight obstacle, controlled, The wicked's foot, that on your tracehold may be. The pentagram prohibits thee? Why tell me now, thou son of Hades, If that prevents, how camest thou in to me? Could such a spirit be so cheated? Inspect the thing, the drawing is not completed. The outer angle, you may see, is often left. The lines don't fit it. Well, chance this time is fairly hidden, And thus thou art prisoner to me, It seems the business has succeeded. The puddle not remarked, as after thee he speeded. But other aspects now obtain. The devil can't get out again. Try, then, the open window-pane. For devils and for specters this is law. Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw. The first is free to us. We are governed by the second. In hell itself, then, laws are reckoned. That's well. So might a compact be made with you gentlemen, And binding, surely? All that is promised shall delight thee purely. No skin-flint-bugging shall douse thee. But this is not of swift conclusion. We will talk about the matter soon. And now I do entreat this boon. Leave, do withdraw from my intrusion. One moment more I ask thee to remain. Some pleasant news, at least, to tell me. Release me now. Release me now. I soon shall come again. Then thou at will maist question and compel me. I have not snares around thee, cast. Thyself has led thyself into the meshes. Who traps the devil, hold him fast. Not soon a second time he'll catch a prey so precious. And please thee also I am content to stay, And serve thee in a social station. But stipulating that I may with arts of mind afford thee recreation. There too I willingly agree, if the diversion pleasant be. My friend, thou wilt win, past all pretenses, More in this hour to soothe thy senses, Than in the years monotony. That which the dainty spirit seeing thee, The lovely pictures they shall bring thee. Are more than magic's empty show. Thy scent will be too bliss invited, Thy pellet dainty taste delighted, Thy nerves of touch ecstatic glow, All unprepared, the charm I spin. We are here together, so begin. Vanishing darking arches above him, Loveliest weather, born of blue ether, Break from the sky, over the darking clouds, As it departed, starlight is sparkling, Tranquilla hearted, suns are on high, Heaven's own children in beauty bewildering, Waveringly bending past as they hover, Longing unending follows them over, They with their glowing garments outflowing, Covering, going landscapes and bower, Wherein seclusion lovers are plighted, Lost in illusion, bower on bower, Tendrils unblighted, low in a shower, Graves that are clustered, gushing to must, Or flow to rivers of looming and flashing, Wine that is dashing, gems that as it boundeth, Down the high places and spreading surroundeth, With crystalline spaces and happy embraces, Blossoming four lands, emerald shorelands, Than the winged races drink and fly onward, Fly ever sunward to the enticing islands that flatter, Dipping in rising light on the water, Hark, the inspiring sound of their choiring, See the entrancing world of their dancing, All in the air are freer and fairer, Some of them scaling, boldly the highlands, Others are sailing, circling the islands, Others are flying, lifeward all highing, All for the distant star of existence, Rapture and love. He sleeps, and of a face your airy number Have sunk him truly into slumber, For this performance are your depth of proof, Not yet I doubt the man to catch the find and hold him, With fairest images of dreams enfold him, Plunge him into seas of sweet untruth, Yet for the trestle's magic which controlled him, The devil needs a rat's quick toot. I use no lengthened invocation, Here Russell swan that soon will work my liberation. The lord of rats and eek of mice, Of flies and bedbugs, frogs and lice, Summons thee hither to the door sill, To know it where with just a morsel, Of oil he paints the spot for thee, There comes Thal hopping on to me. To work at once, the point which made me creven, Is forward on the ledge and graven, And at her bite makes freed a door, So dream thy dreams so fowst, until we meet once more. Fowst Awaking Am I again so fowly cheated? Remains there not of lofty spirit sway, But that a dream the devil counter-fitted, And that a poodle ran away? End of Scene 3 End of Section Scene 4 Of Fowst This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Fowst, Part 1, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Translated by Bayard Taylor Scene 4 The Study A knock, come in, again my quiet broken. Does I? Come in. Christ must the words be spoken. Come in, then. Does thou pleasest me? I hope we'll sweet each other well. For now thy vapours to dispel. I come, a square of high degree, In scarlet coat with golden trimming, A cloak and silken luster swimming, A tall cocksfeeder in my hat, A long sharp sword for show or quarrel, And I advise thee, brief gone flat, To don the self-same gay apparel, That from this then released and free, Life be at last revealed to thee. This life of earth, whatever my attire, Would pain me in its wanted fashion, Too old am I to play with passion, Too young to be without desire. What from the world have I to gain? Thou shalt abstain, renounce, refrain, Such is the everlasting song, That in the ears of all men rings, That unrelieved our whole life long, Each hour in passing, hoarsely sings, In very terror I at morn awake, Upon the verge of bitter weeping, To see the day of disappointment break, To know one hope of mine, not one its promise-keeping, That even each joy's pre-sentiment, With willful caval would diminish, With grinning masks of life prevent my mind Its fairest work to finish. Then, too, when night descends, How anxiously upon my couch of sleep I lay me, There also comes no rest to me, But some wild dream is sent to fray me. The God that in my breast is owned Can deeply stir the inner sources, The God above my powers enthroned, He cannot change external forces. So by the burden of my days oppressed, Death is desired, and life a thing unblessed. And yet he is never yet a holy welcome guest. Oh, fortunate for whom, when victory glances, The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth, Whom after rapid maddening dances In clasping maiden arms he findeth, Oh, would that I before that spirit power Ravished and rapt from life had sunken. And yet by someone in that nightly hour A certain liquid was not drunken. Eavesdropping, by pleasure seems to be. Omniscient am I not, yet much is known to me. Though some familiar tone retrieving my thoughts From torment led me on, and sweet clear echoes Came deceiving a faith bequeathed From childhood's dawn, yet now I curse What air entices and snares the soul With visions vain, with dazzling cheats And dear devices confines it in this cave of pain. Cursed be at once the high ambition Wherewith the mind itself deludes, Cursed be the glare of apparition That on the finer sense intrudes. Cursed be the lying dream's impression Of name and fame and laurel'd brow. Cursed all that flatters as possession, As wife and child, as nave and plow. Cursed mammon be when he with treasures To restless action spurs our fate. Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures He lays for us the pillows straight. Cursed be the vine's transcendent nectar, The highest favor love lets fall. Cursed also hope, cursed faith, the spectre. And cursed be patience, most of all. Whoa, whoa, thou hast it destroyed The beautiful world with powerful fists In ruin it is hurled By the blow of a demi-god shattered The scattered fragments to the void we carry Deploying the beauty, perished beyond restoring Mightier for the children of men, Brightlier build it again in thine own bosom Build it anew, bid the new career Commends with clearer sense And the new songs of cheer be sung there too. These are the small dependents who give me attendance. Hear them to deeds and passion, Counseling shrewd old-fashioned Into the world of strife, out of this lonely life That of senses and sap has betrayed thee. They would pass with thee. This nursing of the pain for go thee That like a vulture feeds up on thy breast The worst society they'll find will show thee Thou art a man among the rest. But it is not meant to trust thee into the mob, thou hateest. I am not one of the greatest, yet Willed thou to me entrust thy steps through life. I'll guide thee, will willing to walk beside thee Will serve thee at once and for ever With best endeavor. And if thou are satisfied Will a sovereign slave with thee abide. And what shall be my counter service, therefore? The time is long, though needs not now insist. No, no, the devil is an egotist, And is not apt without a why or wherefore For God's sake others to assist. Speak thy conditions plain and clear, With such a servant danger comes, I fear. Here, an honorary slave, I'll wear thy teeter And to dine every not obedient bee. When, there again we come together, Then shall thou do the same for me. The there my scruples not increases When thou hast dashed this world to pieces The other then its place may fill. Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources. Jan's son beholds my sorrows in his courses, And when from these my life itself divorces Let happen all that can or will, I'll hear no more. Tis vain to ponder if there we cherish love or hate, Or in the spheres we dream of yonder, A high or low our souls await. In this sense even, canst thou venture, Come by thyself, by prompting venture, And thou my arts would joy shall see What no man ever saw, I will give to thee. Canst thou, poor devil, give me whatsoever? When was a human soul in its supreme endeavour ever understood by such as thou? Yet hast thou food which never satiates now, The restless, ruddy gold hast thou that runs quick silver like one's fingers through, A game whose winnings no man ever knew, A maid that even from my breast beckons my neighbour with her wanton glances, And honors God like zest the meteor that a moment dances, Show me the fruits that air their gathered rot, And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them. Such a demand alarms me not, Such treasures have I and can show them, But still the time may reach as good my friend, When peace we crave and more luxurious diet. When, on an idler's bed, I stretch myself in quiet, There let it once my record end. Canst thou with lying flattery rule me, Until self-pleased myself I see, Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me, Let that day be the last for me, The bet I offer, Done, And heartily, And heartily, when thus I hail the moment flying, Ah, still delay, thou art so fair, Then bind me in thy bonds undying, My final ruin then declare, Then let the death-bell chime the token, Then art thou from thy service free, The clock may stop, the hand be broken, Then time be finished unto me. Consider well, my memory good is rated. Thou hast a perfect right there too, My powers I have not rashly estimated, A slave am I, whatever I do, If thine or whose, it is needless to debate it. Then at the doctor's banquet, I, today, Will as a servant wait behind thee, But one thing more, beyond all risk to bind thee, Give me a line or two, I pray. Demands thou, pedant, too, a document? Has never known a man nor proved his words intent? Is it not enough that what I speak today Shall stand with all my future days agreeing? In all its tides sweeps not the world away, And shall a promise bind my being? Yet this delusion in our hearts we bear, Who would himself there from deliver? Blessed he whose bosom truth makes pure and fair, No sacrifice shall he repent of ever. Nath lest a parchment writ and stamped with care A specter is, which all to shun endeavor. The world, alas, dies even in the pen, And wax and leather keep the lordship then. What wilt from me, base spirit, say? Brass, marble, parchment, paper, clay, The terms with graver, quill, or chisel stated, I freely leave the choice to thee. Why he thyself does instantly, with eloquence exeserated. Each leaf for such a pact is good, And to subscribe thy name thou will take a drop of blood. If thou therewith art fully satisfied, So let us by the far subide. Blood is a choice of rarest quality. Fear not that I this pact shall seek to sever. The promise that I make to thee is just the sum of my endeavor. I have myself inflated all too high. My proper place is thy estate. The mighty spirit deigns me no reply, And nature shuts on me her gate. The thread of thought at last is broken, And knowledge brings disgust unspoken. Let us the sensual depths explore To quench the fervors of glowing passion. Let every marvel take form and fashion Through the impervious veil at war. Plunge we in times to multuous dance, In the rush and roll of circumstance, Then may delight and distress and worry and success Alternately follow as best they can. Restless activity proves the man. For you, no bound, no time is set, Whether you everywhere be trying, Or snatched a rapid bliss and flying, May it agree with you what you get. Only fall to, and show no timid barking. But thou hast heard, it is not of joy we're talking. I take the wildering whirl, Enjoyments keenest pain, Enamored hate, exilerant disdain. My bosom of its thirst for knowledge sated Shall not henceforth from any pang be rested. And all of life, for all mankind created, Shall be within mine inmost being tested. The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow, Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow. And thus my own soul's self to all their selves expanded, I too at last shall with them all be stranded. Believe me, who for many a thousand year The same tough mit have chewed and tested, That from the cradle to the beer No man the ancient liven has digested. Trust one of us, this whole supano Is made but for a God's delight. He dwells in splendour single and ethanol, But us he trusts in darkness out of sight, And you he dours with day and night. Nay, but I will. A good reply. One only fear still needs repaying. The art is long, the time is fleeting. Then let thyself be taught, say I. Girl, lick thyself with a poet, Give the rain to his imagination, Then wear the crown and show it Of the qualities of his creation. The courage of a lion's breed, the wild-steck speed, The Italian's fiery blood, the nods farm forty-two. Let him find for thee the secret teeter That binds the noble and mean together, And teach the falses of ute and pleasure To love by rule and hate by measure. I'd like myself such a one to see, So microcosm his name should be. What am I, then, if tis denied my part The crown of all humanity to win me, Where to yearn's every sense within me? Why, on the whole, thou art, What thou art? Set weeks of million carls upon thy head To raise thee, where sooth an L in height That truth betrays thee, and thou remainst What thou art? I feel indeed that I have made the treasure Of human thought and knowledge mine in vain, And if I now sit down in restful leisure No fount of newer strength is in my brain, I am no hair's breadth more in height Nor nearer to the infinite. Good sir, you see the facts precisely As they are seen by each at all. We must arrange them now more wisely Before the joys of life shall pale. Why, chance, both hands and feet are truly And hidden viral forces dine, Yet all that I indulge in nearly Is a tense, less holy mind. If I have six talions in my stall Are not their forces also lent me, I spit along completest man of all, As though my legs were four and twenty. Take hold, then, let reflection rest, And plunge into the world with chest. I say to thee a speculative wire Is like a beast on a moulin's lead, That round and round some find misleads to evil plight, While all about life has to yours fresh and green. Then how shall we begin? We will try whiter's fare, What place of martyrdom is here? Is it life I ask, is it even prudence To bore thyself and bore the students? Let neighbor punch to that attempt, Why plague thyself with trashing straw for ever? The best thou larnest in the end, Thou daresst not tell the youngsters never. I hear one's footsteps, he does jeering. To see him now I have no heart. So long the poor boy waits a hearing, He must not unconsult the part. Thy cab and mantel straight will end me, I'll play the comedy with art. He disguises himself. My wits be certain, will be afraid me, But fifteen minutes' time is all I need For our fine trip, meanwhile prepare thyself with speed. Exit Faust Mephistopheles in Faust's long mantel Reason and knowledge only thou despise, Thou hast shranked in man that lies. Let but the lying spirit bind thee, With magic walks and shows that blind thee, And I shall have thee fast and sure. Faith such a bold untrammeled spirit gave him, As forward's onwards ever must end the hour, Whose overest impulse drive him past oddly joys he might secure. Dread through the wildest life, will I enslave him Through flat and stale indifference, With struggling, chilling, checking, so deprave him That to his heart in such a sense The dream of drink shall mark, but never leave him. Refresement shall his lips in vain implore, Had he not made himself the devil's, not could save him. Still, were he lost forevermore. A student enters. A short time only am I here, and come, devoted and sincere, To greet and know the man of fame who mint to me with reverence name. Your courtesy dot flatter me. You see a man as others be. Have you for a chance elsewhere began. Receive me now, I pray, as one who comes to you with courage good, Somewhat of cash and healthy blood, my mother was hardly willing to let me, But knowledge worth having, I feign would get me. Then you have reached the right place now. I'd like to leave it, I must avow. I find these walls, these vaulted spaces, are anything but pleasant places, Which is also cramped and close and mean, One sees no tree, no glimpse of green, And when the lecture halls receive me, Seeing, hearing, and thinking leave me. All that depends on habit here. So from its modest breasts a child, at first reluctant, takes its food. But soon to see them is beguiled. Thus at the breast of wisdom clinging, Thou will find each day a greater rapture bringing. I'll hang there on with joy and freely drain them, But tell me, pray, the proper means to gain them. Explain before your father's pick, the special faculty you seek. I crave the highest division, And fame would make my acquisition all that there is in earth and heaven, In nature and science too. Here is a genuine path for you, yet strict attention must be given. Body and soul they're on all Greek, yet truly I have some inclination On summer holidays to seek a little freedom in recreation. Use well your time, it flies so swiftly from us. But time through order may be one I promise. So friend, my views to briefly sum. First, the coliseum logicum. There will your mind be drilled and brazed, As if in Spanish boots it were laced. And thus to graver paces broad, It will plod along the path of thought, Instead of shooting hair and air, A willow that will spin murky air. Days will be spent to bid you know What once you did at a single blow, Like eating and drinking, free and strong. That one to three there to belong. Truly the fabric of mental bliss Resembles a weaver's masterpiece, Where a thousand threads one treadle throws, Where fly the shuttles hither and thither, Unseen the threads are kneaded together, And an infinite combination grows. Then the philosopher staves in, And shows no otherwise it could have been. The first was so, the second so, Therefore the third and fourth are so. When of the first and second, Then the third and fourth had never been. The scholars are everywhere believers, But never succeed in being weavers. He who would study organic existence First drives out the soul with rigid persistence. Then departs in his hand, He may hold and clasp, But the spiritual link is lost alas, And carries in natures these chemistry names, Nor knows how ourselves he banters and blames. I cannot understand you quite. Your mind will shortly be set aright When you have learned all things reducing To classify them for your using. I feel as stupid from all you've said As if a meal will whirl in my head. And after, first and foremost duty, Of metaphysics learn the eels and beauty. See that you most profoundly gain What does not sweet the human brain. A splendid word to serve you will find, For what goes in or won't go in your mind. But first at least this half a year To order rigidly adhere. Five hours a day you understand, And when the clock strikes be on hand. Prepare beforehand for your part, With paragraphs all got by heart. So we can better watch and look. That not is set but what is in the book. Yet in thy writing as unwear it be, As did the holy ghost dictate to thee. No need to tell me twice to do it. I think how useful it is to write. For what one has in black and white One carries home and then goes through it. Yet choose thyself a faculty. I cannot reconcile myself to jurisprudence. Nor can I therefore greatly blame new students. I know what science this has come to be. All rights and laws are still transmitted Like an eternal sickness of the race. From generation unto generation fitted And sifted round from place to place. Reason becomes a sham. Beneficiency worry. Thou art a grandchild, therefore woe to thee. The right born with us, ours in verity. This to consider, there is alas no hurry. My own disgust is strengthened by your speech. O lucky ye whom you shall teach. I've almost fore theology decided. I should not wish to see you hear misguided. For as rigor's designs let me hint. It is very hard to shun the false direction. There is so much secret poison lacking in it. So like the medicine, it baffles your detection. Here, therefore, one alone, for that is best ensued. And simply take your master's words for truth. On words, lay to your attention centre. Then through the safest gate you will enter The temple halls of certainty. Yet in the word must some idea be. Of course, but only shun two oversharp at Tansen. For just where fails the comprehension. A word steps promptly in as the beauty. With words, it is excellent disputing. Systems towards, it is easy sweetening. On words, it is excellent believing. No word can ever lose a jot from saving. Pardon, with many questions I detain you. Yet must I trouble you again? Of medicine I still would feign. Hear one strong word that might explain you. Three years is but a little space. And God, who can the feel embrace? If one some index could be shun, Twer easier groping forward, truly. Aside. I am tired of this dry tone. Must play the devil again, and fully. Allowed. To grasp the spirit of medicine is easy. Learn of the great and little world you'll feel. To let it go at last, so please yeah. Just as God will. In vain that through the reams of science you may drift. Each one learns only just what learn he can. Yet he who grasps the moment's gift. He is the proper man. Well made you are, it is not to be denied. The rest of bold address will win you. If you but in yourself confide. At once confide all others in you. To lead the women learn the special feeling. Their everlasting aches and groans in thousand tones Have all one source, one mode of healing. And if your acts are half discreet, You will always have them at your feet. Your title first must draw and interest them. And show that yours all other arts exceeds. Then as a greeting you are free to touch and test them. While does to do for years another please. You press and count the pulses dances. And then with the burning side long glances You clasp the swelling hips to see. If tightly laced how cause it be. That's better now. The how and where one sees. My woody friend Gray are all theories And green alone lives golden tray. I swear to you it is like a dream to me. Might I again presume with trust unbounded To hear your wisdom thoroughly expounded. Most willingly to what extent I may. I cannot really go away. Allow me that my album must first reach you. Grant me this favor I beseech you. As surely. He writes and returns the book. Reads. It is a secret deus. Saintess Bonham and Malam. Closes the book with reverence and withdraws. Follow the ancient text and the sneak That was ordered to chamber. With all the likeness to God Thou wilt yet be a sorry example. First enters. Now wither shall we go. As best it pleases thee. The little old and then the great we will see. With what delight what profit winning. Sheltered our sponge through the time beginning. Yet with the flowing beard I wear Both ease and grace will fail me there. The attempt indeed were a futile strife. I never could learn the ways of life. I feel so small before others And then should always find embarrassments. My friend, thou soon self-lose all such misgiving. Be thou but self-possessed. Thou hast the art of living. How shall we leave the house and start? Where hast thou servant, coach, and horses? We will spread this cloak with proper art. Then through the air direct our courses. But only on so bold a flight Be sure to have thy luggage light. The little burning air which I shall soon prepare us. Above the art will nimbly bear us. And if we are light, we will travel swift and clear. I gratulate thee on thy new career. End of scene four. End of scene four. End of section.